Come the Fear by Chris Nickson

driven cattle into the city to be killed and butchered at the Shambles and the road was thick with muddy cow pats, strong and stinking. He heard the heavy, grievous lowing of the beasts further up the street as they were put to the knife.
    Back at the jail he fed the fire and dried off, his coat steaming as the heat took hold. By the time the deputy arrived from his rounds Nottingham was settled with a pie left over from the day before and a mug of small beer.
    â€˜Quiet market, boss?’
    â€˜The merchants will have made another fortune so they’ll be happy. Any word on this burglar?’
    â€˜Nothing. No one has any names, no one’s been trying to sell the plate. I even went over and asked Joe Buck and he hasn’t heard anything.’
    The Constable frowned. If Buck, the largest dealer in stolen goods in the city, didn’t know, the thief was keeping quiet.
    â€˜What about Lucy? Did Caroline come up with the name of her pimp?’
    â€˜I haven’t seen her yet. She’ll be out later.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Don’t fancy her chances of doing well in this.’
    â€˜It’s market day. Enough people will be flush that trade will be good. I need that name, John. We’ve got nothing else.’
    From the Moot Hall up to Harrison’s market cross at the Head Row, stalls lined Briggate. The patter of rain made a tumbling dance on the ragged sheets the vendors had put over their stalls.
    Old clothes, pans and pots, baskets, and more competed for space with withered carrots and potatoes kept through the winter to sell. Chickens squawked in terror as their cages were stacked. The street was a clamour of people inspecting and bargaining. A woman yelled her wares, apples that had been fresh before the flesh had puckered, hoping for a few pennies from the last of autumn. Men and women moved against each other, packed tight. It would be the perfect place for the pickpocket to strike again, and the Constable needed to try and find him.
    Nottingham walked through, fingertips tight on his money, alert for a hand, watching for a glance or a sly movement. Sedgwick was there too, doing the same thing, the pair of them bait in the press of people. They finally gave up as the church bell struck noon. The rain had stopped, but that was the only good thing about the day. They stood by the cross and the Constable rubbed the rough, worn stone.
    â€˜He’s in there,’ he said, looking at the crowd.
    â€˜I’ll wager we’ll have someone in later who’s had his money lifted.’
    Nottingham shook his head. ‘I won’t bet against you. Whoever it is, he probably knows our faces.’ He paused and glanced at the deputy. ‘Caroline should be out and earning by now.’
    The Constable walked down the Head Row and along Vicar Lane. After the strident bustle of the market the streets seemed curiously quiet. Carts still passed, servants shuffled on their way back to work, arms laden with purchases, harried looks on their faces, but the noise was that of every day. It should have soothed him but it didn’t.
    He was on edge and he knew it. He wanted the name of the pimp. They had nothing else, no way into finding out who’d killed Lucy Wendell. Whoremasters killed their girls; he’d seen it too often over the years. One blow too many, in drink or in anger, a harsh touch with a knife. He’d made enough of them swing.
    But this murder was different, deliberate and evil. And that was why he had to find the killer.
    She was exactly where he expected to find her, a cap covering her hair, wearing the only dress she possessed, a muslin gown with its pattern so faded it was impossible to make out. She’d pulled it down to show off what bosom she still had, the skin wrinkled and aged between her breasts. She held a fan over her mouth, waving it coyly to hide her rotten teeth and the foul smell of her breath. But her eyes twinkled when she saw